Dancing in the Night
by miss.ouiser
Summary: A nightmare has a happy ending. Some Jean/Lucien fluff.


Jean awoke a split second before she heard Lucien's cry in the night. This was nothing new, as she had become accustomed to listening for his nightmares, even in her sleep. She waited a moment to see if he had woken himself up, but was greeted with more sounds of distress. She reached for her robe as she got out of bed, tying the sash as she made her way quickly down the stairs to Lucien's room.

She knocked on his door and entered without waiting for permission. The light from the hallway spilled onto the bed, where Lucien lay in a fetal position, clutching the sheet. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the furrow between his brows and the pulse beating at his temple. This was a bad one.

Jean moved to his side as she gently called his name, and kneeled on the floor next to him. She reached out and carefully stroked his cheek, softly assuring him that he was home, he was safe, and she was with him. She had learned from experience that this was best done slowly and patiently and, more recently, lovingly. For a minute or more she continued her ministrations, tenderly running her fingers through his hair and caressing the side of his face, until he began to calm. The lines in his face relaxed, his breathing slowed, and his body uncurled itself beneath the coverings. She took his hand and held it between her own, bringing it up to her lips to bestow a kiss, then quietly stood up to return to her own room; he would be alright now. She was stopped at the threshold by his voice;

"Jean…" Lucien sounded exhausted but hopeful. "Jean?" She turned around and saw him looking at her, still not quite awake; perhaps he thought she was an apparition?

"It's alright, Lucien. I'm here." Jean moved back to the bed, this time choosing to sit beside him on the mattress. He sat up and shifted a bit to make room, fully awake now. His pajama top was plastered to his body, damp with perspiration.

"I'm so sorry. I woke you again."

"There's no need to apologize, Lucien. I'm just sorry you have these nightmares at all." He had taken her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of it, his head down, avoiding her eyes, working to regain his composure. Jean recognized it for what it was: embarrassment, shame, fragility. She squeezed his hand in her own, letting him know without words that she understood. He never spoke of what made him cry out in the night. Maybe one day he would tell her. Jean could wait. She knew it wasn't a question of trust, but that he did not want to subject her to the darkness that refused to leave him. She wished, not for the first time, that she could take it from him.

"How about I make us both some tea?" she offered quietly.

"Yes, please, that would be lovely," Lucien replied somewhat shakily, reluctant to part with her, but grateful for the chance to pull himself together. He was aware that he needed a fresh set of pajamas.

She surprised him by leaning over and kissing his cheek before getting up. Jean had rules about kissing in the bedroom: namely, it was forbidden until such time as was sanctioned by God. He was about to remind her of that, then thought better of it. If she wanted to change the rules, he was not going to argue.

A short time later Lucien, in dry pajamas and dressing gown, sat at the kitchen table, watching Jean prepare the tea. She put the kettle on the hob and reached for some biscuits. Music from the radio played in the background. Unlike Lucien's choice of classical, Jean had set it to a popular music station. Thankfully, it was playing something soft and slow. Lucien didn't think he wanted to hear rock 'n roll just then. In fact, he barely heard the music at all. His mind was focused on Jean, in her pink bathrobe, pink satin pajamas and white embroidered slippers. But although the image was familiar and comforting, the sight of her hair made him smile. The customary hairnet which usually imprisoned her head every night was gone. As a result, her hair was a slightly wild whirl of curls, which she kept trying – with limited success – to push back behind her ears. It was an unconscious gesture, and Lucien found it utterly endearing. The longer he looked at her, the further away the nightmares retreated. He felt his world begin to right itself once more.

Jean caught him staring at her and felt suddenly self-conscious. She was not a vain woman, but was aware that her bathrobe was beginning to fray, that her hair was a mess, and that her face lacked even the most minimal bit of make-up. She couldn't fathom why this bothered her; they had seen each other in their respective nightwear countless other times before, when the phone rang, or the police were at the door, or when Lucien woke them. Why did this feel different? She became absorbed in setting out the teacups, picking imaginary specks of dust off the surface. She felt, rather than saw, Lucien come up behind her, and tried to ignore the way her heart sped up when he placed his hands on her arms. She felt him bury his nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of her.

A new song was playing on the radio; something slow and bluesy and smoky. An American, Jean vaguely recalled, Ray Something-or-Other. She tried to remember his name, but Lucien had turned her around, slid his hands down her arms and then onto her waist, and was looking at her with that expression that was only for her. Like the way he had looked at her on the bus to Adelaide, only this time it _was_ different – deeper, more intense, primal. One of his hands came up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

"My hair is a mess."

"Yes." A pause, then, "I like it this way."

He stopped her from saying anything more, placing a light kiss on her lips, his fingers toying with her hair, tracing the shell of her ear. Jean was disappointed when he pulled away, her fingers clutching slightly at his chest. When did she put her hands there?

Lucien placed Jean's left hand on his shoulder, and took the other one in his. His right hand closed around her waist, and they began to dance. Not a waltz or a foxtrot or anything you would recognize, just slowly turning, swaying together, her head on his chest, his cheek on her hair, both with eyes closed. After a moment, Jean raised her face to his, sought his mouth and captured it. Her hand moved from his shoulder to the base of his neck, where his hair was still slightly damp and oh-so-slightly curled. She ran her fingers through it, her nails gently raking his scalp. Lucien made a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl and pulled her closer, his hand traveling down her spine and coming to rest at the base. His beard rasped against her skin, deliciously irritable, and she gave in to the urge to run her tongue across his lips. Lucien pulled her even closer, moving his hand lower down her body while the other entwined itself in her hair. It was Jean's turn to growl, which sounded in Lucien's ears like a purr, and he smiled against her lips before parting them with his tongue.

Neither one knew how much time had passed, nor did they care. But, eventually, they both became aware that the music had taken on a high-pitched shrill, and they reluctantly broke the kiss just a little. Both breathless, they could hardly speak.

"I think the kettle is whistling."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"I don't care."

"Good."

And they kept on dancing in the night.

 ** _A/N The song on the radio? "Georgia on My Mind" by Ray Charles. Just because..._**


End file.
